


Full Circle

by starhawk2005



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Het, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:39:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Co-written with <b>_vicodin</b> on LJ. AU where Cameron did leave to work for Yule after “Role Model”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: Spoilery for S1 and S2 House.

It’s been two years.

Well, not to the day, because he could never be bothered with anniversaries of any kind, but he knows he’s close. He yawns, then reaches for his scotch and the glass in the bottom right drawer of his desk, because he needs some alcohol if he’s going to be introspective.

But there’s none. And he scoffs.

“Damn it, Cuddy.”

He leans back in the chair, looking at the pile of charts. They haven’t really been done properly by anyone for two years, since Cameron—

_You don’t need to worry about firing anyone. I’m leaving._

He never expected her to actually go through with it. And somehow, it hadn’t stuck until after she’d left. It was in the details—it still is. The department goes on as normal—he finds a new immunologist with pointy shoes and nice hair, and he’s sure she has some kind of crush on Wilson—and they solve their cases and move on.

But it’s the details.

It’s the pile of charts that accumulates before he threatens Chase, who does them because he has no choice if he wants to keep his job. Or it’s possibly in the mail that he gets—mostly uninteresting case consults, but it doesn’t matter—that goes unanswered for weeks, until Wilson or someone else that can’t stand looking at the pile of papers just gets it for him.

Those are the small things that he’d lost and easily replaced, but every now and then, it comes back to haunt and irritate him—what he could have done to push back, instead of standing there like an idiot.

But it’s over now.

He reaches for his iPod, but looks up to see Wilson in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says, then steps inside.

House arches an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

House snorts, because Wilson has that look on his face, the same one that he gets when he has to tell him that he cheated on his wife or just got back together with one of his wives, or something equally exciting.

“Nothing?”

“Yeah,” Wilson says, making a pathetic attempt to cover up the expression on his face. “What, I can’t just come in to talk to you when I feel like it?”

House scoffs. “Damn. No wonder all your affairs didn’t last long. You’re a horrible liar.”

Wilson sighs, shaking his head. And he gives up, and House supposes it’s because he’s gotten more annoyed with him over the years. He just hasn’t got the energy to fight anymore, and it’s disappointing.

“You might want to take in the lecture tomorrow,” he says simply. And he’s smirking. “The guest lecturer for Riley’s class.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Trust me,” Wilson says simply. And House wonders if he’s being intentionally vague. Because it’s not funny. “You want to.”

House snorts, arching an eyebrow.

“The last time you used those exact five words, I almost got arrested.”

Wilson laughs, shaking his head—that had been a while ago, but House is sure he remembers it.

“Well, you won’t get arrested for going to a lecture,” he says.

House nods, reaching for his cane and Vicodin, then taking one of the pills. “No, but Cuddy might have a heart attack. And we don’t want that.”

“I thought you enjoyed making her miserable.”

“I do.”

“So go to the lecture.”

House sighs.

“Why?”  
Standing, Wilson shrugs. “You won’t regret it.”

Wilson leaves, and House hates the smirk he has on his face, so his brow furrows as he goes around to the elevators, heading to PPTH’s lecture halls. He hates them, and he never sets foot in them unless he absolutely has to, but Wilson has that ridiculous look on his face for some reason.

It’d better be good.

He heads down to Dr. Riley’s class—he’s been getting sick lately, Cuddy says, or maybe that’s just because she’s been trying to get House to lecture—the negotiations for clinic duty in exchange for a lecture are still pending. There’s a whiteboard outside of Riley’s classroom that House steps up to, reading the writing.

His eyes widen.

_Guest Lecturer:_

_Dr. Allison Cameron_

And he almost laughs.

*~*~*

 

Allison is reminded every day that it’s a good thing she left when she did. It’s in the details.

It’s in the fact she can run on her treadmill without worrying about the sharp rap of wood on wood coming from the front door. The fact that she can come in to work in the morning, and not have someone railing at her that it’s her job to do the coffee.

It’s in the fact that when she gets a diagnosis wrong, Yule doesn’t snap at her that she’s letting her emotions get in the way of being a good doctor.

It’s in the fact she’s happier this way.

When Wilson’s emails came, at first she just didn’t read any paragraph where anything about House’s personal life appeared. She’d gone out and purchased a bottle of wine in celebration when Vogler was thrown off the board. She’d smirked over Chase’s latest extravagance, Foreman’s latest attempt to get one over on House, House’s newest attempts to annoy Cuddy and avoid Clinic duty, even how Wilson tried to spar with him. She smiles as she thinks about the running tally she’s been keeping with Wilson – Wilson is far and away the loser in the war with House.

But anything with ‘House’ and ‘pain’? ‘House’ and ‘depression’, or ‘miserable’? She’d just scan quickly down until she found the next topic. 

Until one day, her unwilling eyes had caught ‘House’ and ‘old girlfriend’ in the same sentence. Despite herself, she’d read it over. She hadn’t known how House had gotten the infarction, nor the role Stacy Warner had played in it.

At first, it was a little amusing to read. How jealous House was getting, the lengths Wilson told her House was going to, to get under Stacy’s skin. The soap opera aspect was amusing and appalling at the same time. Allison wondered if House realized that the soap operas he’d loved so much to watch had _nothing_ on his current activities.

When Wilson mentioned that he suspected House and Stacy had slept together, however, that was when Allison remembered herself. Remembered not only why she’d left in the first place, but why she’d been trying to avoid the details of House’s life.

She’d gotten off the computer and buried herself in her jogging and her cases and her medical journals. But not before that painful thought occurred to her: she’d thought he was too screwed up to love anyone. Now, it looked like she was wrong. House just couldn’t love _her_.

She’d managed to stay away from the emails for another month, before curiosity got the better of her. Also,  Wilson didn’t deserve her silence. He’d tried to be a good, supportive friend. She’d just go back to skipping over the parts of the emails where anything about House and his personal life came up.

Even when  Wilson mentioned that Stacy was gone, Allison only allowed herself to feel a little relief. Nothing much had changed when Stacy left, at least according to  Wilson ’s emails. Besides, Allison knew it should be irrelevant to her now whether House was seeing someone or not. 

Life went on. She did her job, and did it well. Soon she was the de facto leader of the team, under Yule, of course. Doctors came to her for consults, respectfully seeking her opinion. Their eyes even stayed on her face, instead of her breasts. It was surely a nice change.

Then she heard about the shooting at PPTH in the news. She didn’t need  Wilson ’s email to inform her of the details, though – the local paper gave her just enough – House had been the victim. 

Before she’d known it, she’d been in her car, heading towards PPTH. If House died…

He didn’t, though. She went in, keeping vigil over him, not caring about the knowing looks that Chase and Foreman exchanged with each other when they saw her there. The similar looks  Wilson and Cuddy gave when they saw her there, as well.

And yet, Allison knew her limits. She’d wanted to make sure he’d pull through, and he had.  Wilson had told her about House asking for ketamine, and what they’d hoped it would do. The longer she sat at House’s bedside, the more she knew she should leave. If House woke up and it didn’t work, he’d be even more miserable than before, and she’d had enough of it the first time around.

But even if the ketamine worked…she didn’t think she wanted to be around for that, either. At least not immediately. She could hear House’s sardonic voice in her head right now: “You have no interest in going out with me. Maybe you did, when I couldn't walk and I was a sick puppy that you could nurture back to health. Now that I'm healthy, there's nothing in it for you.”

So when House began to stir, coming out of his coma, she’d bolted from his room, straight back to her car, and driven back home. 

She’d never asked  Wilson if anyone had told House that she’d been there, and he hadn’t mentioned it. In retrospect, she was glad. She’d had a moment of weakness, driven by a moment of fear, and she needed to remind herself that she didn’t want to go back there.

Until now. 

Dr. Riley had extended an invitation to Yule, to speak at PPTH, but Yule had told Allison that he didn’t want to go. His wife was expecting their second child, and there were some issues with his wife’s pregnancy. He wanted Allison to go in his place.

So now Allison is at PPTH, looking out into an auditorium full of people, and wondering if House is there. If House  _will_ be there, if he isn’t already. 

As well as how she’ll feel, when and if he shows up.

 

*~*~*

 

To House’s surprise, he ends up in the lecture hall. But he tells himself that he’s really got nothing better to do. Which is partially true, because the only real alternative is clinic, and wiping crotches and dealing with a sixty-year-old’s chlamydia is much less appealing than taking in a lecture.

He’s waiting for her. And when she steps out and looks out at the auditorium full of people, he doesn’t know what to think.

She’s…well, she’s still Cameron. He doesn’t have any kind of revelation or movie moment—she’s just Cameron. 

She doesn’t look taller or older, in any sense. Maybe there’s a difference in the way she carries herself, but that’s probably because her new boss doesn’t browbeat her or force her to do charts late into the night. Or maybe House just won’t admit it. She looks more assertive, and it’s most apparent in the way she talks, taking questions from the idiots in front that have probably already memorized the lecture material. The subject of the lecture isn’t that interesting, at least to House—it’s not a puzzle, and therefore boring—but he spends most of his time watching her. It gives him an advantage, or so he’d like to think. That way, he can base his assumptions on something.

Miraculously, he stays quiet—and awake—for the entire lecture. He’d rather not be obnoxious until he at least knows what he’s dealing with. And this time, he’s glad that Wilson isn’t sitting next to him, annoying him—it puts a damper on the observing process. When she’s finished, people start to file out, a few stopping to thank her for her time and talk to her briefly. She doesn’t tell them to get lost—he’s disappointed—though one of the students makes an attempt to hit on her, and she promptly shoots him down, which is amusing.

The student passes House as he stands off to the side, and House smirks at him as he walks past, looking dejected.

“Sorry, buddy. She’s still got the hots for _me_.”

Cameron looks up from some papers at the desk. She looks reasonably surprised—if she didn’t see him earlier, she hid it well. 

“House.”

He could only garner surprise from her voice, but not much else, as the way she said his name was hardly anything to go by. It was terse and she still had papers in her hands, but she stood up straight. He steps forward, leaning against the desk.

“Hey,” he says, “Long time, no talk.”

She laughs softly, gathering up her papers and putting them in her bag. “You hardly seem like the type that would want to keep in touch.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t. It’s just something I’m supposed to say. Along with the obligatory ‘it’s good to see you again’ and ‘you look good’.”

“Right,” she says, just as tersely, and he finds himself surprised by it. But then again, he doesn’t know what he expected. On some level, he wants everyone around him to stay the same. Because he knows them that way. It’s what’s easiest.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” she says.

He starts to twirl his cane, and almost reaches for his pills again because he’s going to need them if he’s going to have one of these conversations, where they’re going to dance around the subject that they really should be discussing. Then again, he isn’t quite sure what they should be discussing to begin with.

“It’s either this or swabbing a sixty-year-old’s crotch to check for STDs.”

“Wow,” she mutters dryly. “I’m flattered.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and for a moment, he almost lets her see it. But he steps back from the desk, and instead watches her as she puts the rest of her things in her bag, and then swings it over her shoulder. And he raises an eyebrow when she moves to the door.

And he follows.

“Where are you going?”

She looks surprised that he’s asked the question, and she shrugs. “I’m getting coffee. I’m tired.”

“Good,” he says simply. “I’ll come with.”

“Why?”

“Get that hopeful look off your face,” he mutters, sliding his hand into the pocket of his jacket, his fingers brushing against the bottle of pills. “I’m avoiding clinic.”

She arches an eyebrow. “So?”

“So nothing. It’s a win-win situation. You get to have coffee, I get to avoid clinic _and_ have coffee. Mutual satisfaction. And did I mention that you’d be paying for said coffee?”

“Great.” 

He smirks in satisfaction, and she doesn’t say anything else after that. They walk through the university, mostly in silence. She makes an attempt at making superficial conversation, asking him how Foreman and Chase are. And she asks about Wilson, which he finds curious, but doesn’t comment on quite yet. They arrive at the Starbucks down the street, and he makes it a point to buy the most expensive coffee they have, just to spite her. And they sit down at a table in the corner.

“So,” he says.

She laughs softly, taking a sip of her coffee. “Are you going to interrogate me?”  
“Maybe,” he shoots back, taking a sip of his own coffee and wrinkling his nose—it’s far too sweet, and he probably should’ve taken that into account when ordering it. But it doesn’t matter.

“Why are you lecturing?” he finally asks, unable to take the silence for much longer.

“My boss was supposed to,” she replies, “But his wife’s pregnant and he didn’t want to leave. So he sent me.”

“And you accepted.”

“Obviously.”

He snorts. “And you didn’t come to see me. I’m disappointed.”

“We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms,” she says simply.

“No, we parted on _your_ terms.”

She doesn’t try to argue with that, and instead takes another sip of her coffee. And he’s surprised, because she’s apparently learned when to pick her arguments. And again, he notes a difference in the way she carries herself, and pushes back at him. And he finds himself interested.

Cocking his head to the side, he lets his lips curl in a smirk.

“So has Yule hit on you yet?”

She looks up abruptly from the coffee, apparently adjusting to the change in subject. “ _No_.”

He continues, undeterred. “Have you hit on him?”

“He’s my boss.”

“Never stopped you before.”

At that, she surprised him with her response, putting her coffee down and smirking at him, saying, “Only have eyes for you.”

He’s taken aback for the moment, his eyebrows raising, but he continues all the same. “No boyfriend?”

She doesn’t waste any time: “No girlfriend?”

“No comment.”

The smirk on her face stays and he almost hates her because she, if only on a small level, just got the better of him. Momentarily, though. He decides that it won’t stop him, and he takes another sip of the coffee, for lack of anything better to do, and takes another one of his pills.

But it’s her that speaks next.

“You look--”

“I know,” he interrupts. “Me and the cane are aging gracefully.”

She sighs, but finishes. “You look good.”

He snorts, shaking his head and looking down, tapping his cane against the arm of the chair. “Now, see, that’s exactly the kind of assumption you’re not allowed to make if you haven’t seen me in two years.”

“It’s just what I’m supposed to say.”

“If I’ve taught you nothing,” he shoots back, “it’s that you shouldn’t waste your time and mine on stupid pleasantries.” 

“Well,” she says calmly, “compared to how you were, you look great.”

He’s almost irritated by how calm she is. It’s becoming more difficult now to get a reaction out of her—it would’ve been so much easier before. And he wonders what it would’ve been like if he—

It doesn’t matter.

“I was just fine two years ago,” he says. “You liked me. Can’t have been that bad.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Here, it seems to dawn on him what she is talking about, about the shooting and the aftermath of it, and his eyes darken. “How the hell do you know how I was?”

“I was there.”

“When?”

“When you were shot.”

His brow furrows, and he almost glares at her because he doesn’t want to actually deal with the fact that she actually went to see him. Or how she knew. “I don’t remember that.”

“That’s because I left.”

“Why?”

They start to push back and forth at each other like this, and he finds himself leaning closer to her. They’ve abandoned their coffee, and he leans forward on his elbows on the table, waiting for her answer.

“Just wanted to see if you were going to be okay,” she finally says.

“How’d you know I was shot?”

She hesitates for a moment, but then answers, probably because she knows that he’ll find out eventually, anyway. “Wilson.” Newspaper. But Wilson would’ve told me anyways.

“I’ll kill him.”

Cameron snorts, shaking her head. “Why? It’s not like it matters.”

But he seems to just move on, ignoring her words and asking the next question. “Why’d you leave?”

“I went to see if you were going to be okay,” she repeats. “I saw that you were, had some obligations for work, then had to go.”

He smirks. “You’re lying.”

She says nothing, and he keeps on rambling because he’s found something. She’s stopped being calm, and just seems irritated. And he almost laughs, because this is what he considers victory. It doesn’t occur to him how ridiculous that is.

“Should’ve known that me being wounded would make you come running. So when I woke up, I probably wasn’t interesting because I wasn’t dying.”

“I was _busy_ ,” she retorts. “And I knew that if you saw me, you’d spend most your time mocking me and the fact that I was actually sitting by your bedside.”

“Figures that it’d take a lunatic with a gun to bring you back,” he continues. Then shrugs. “A relationship is only possible when the other person is on the verge of death. Don’t you get tired of that?”

“Shut up, House.”

“See, getting me to shut up-- that didn’t work two years ago, it still doesn’t work now. Apparently, Yule’s taught you nothing. Or maybe he shuts up when you politely ask him to—”

She snorts. “I’m not even going to bother.”

“Maybe you should leave again. Another two years. We can try this again—we’ll see if you can get me to shut up then, too—”

But he doesn’t say anything else.

She’s kissing him, her hand curled tightly in his hair and the other on his jaw. She’s kissing him, but for the wrong reasons.

This is how it shouldn’t happen.

Allison knows kissing him like this is a bad idea. Probably the worst idea she’s had in a long time. But she has nothing to lose, and she’s not interested in a battle of words that she has little hope of winning.

This is the one thing she’s never tried.

So she puts everything into it. Running her hand along his chin, feeling the stiff little bristles of his stubble, twisting her fingers into his hair. When his lips open against hers, she almost draws back in surprise, but then she takes advantage. Because once she ends this and pulls away, that might be the end of it. For good.

Instead, she slips her tongue into his mouth, caressing. She’s less surprised now when he meets her halfway, his own tongue slipping past hers and into her mouth, starting to explore. Sharing the taste of their respective coffees.

He doesn’t know how he got to this point. One minute they’re in safe, familiar territory, arguing as if the two years never elapsed. The next, she’s in his personal space. _Way_ in his personal space. And he finds himself giving in. Because she’s doing something unexpected and interesting, and that’s always going to grab his attention. It’s nothing more than that, or so he repeats to himself as he allows his tongue to discover the new territory inside her.

She wants it to continue, but some instinct tells her to stop. Give him a taste, only a taste. He doesn’t deserve anything else, not unless he makes some effort to attain it.

So she breaks the kiss and leans back, allowing herself to smirk at him slightly. “Gee, House, you don’t seem to be dying _now_. And yet, I just kissed you. How do you explain _that_?” While he sits there gaping at her, she downs the last few swallows of her coffee and grabs her purse. Wordlessly, she tosses a few bills on the table and then gets up and strolls leisurely to the door. As if she expects him to follow her.

On the inside, however, it’s a different story. Her heart is pounding, her blood is stirred. She took a risk, and now comes the sickening moment, the _wait_ , until she sees what the outcome will be. But she’s not going to let House see how anxious she is. He’s like a shark. If he smells the blood, he’ll attack verbally again. And if that happens, she might as well never have kissed him.

House doesn’t know what the Hell is going on. It’s like he’s in a poorly edited movie, jumping rapidly from status quo to kiss to sitting alone in the booth watching Cameron walking idly to the door of the coffee shop. 

He abandons his coffee and limps after her, catching up with her outside. She’s just going to kiss him and leave, just like _that_?

“Where are you going?” he notices the rasp in his voice, betraying him. Probably the half-erection in his pants is betraying him, too, but this is more obvious.

She thinks she has him, but she won’t let herself feel victory yet. She tells him the truth: “Foreman is letting me sleep over in his spare room tonight, so I can drive back tomorrow morning and not fall asleep at the wheel.”

Predictably, House doesn’t let the puzzle go, jumping back to what must obviously be on his mind. “Why did you just kiss me, Cameron?”

She lets herself snort, as if he’s deliberately being obtuse. “Didn’t you yourself tell me I shouldn’t waste my time and yours on stupid pleasantries?” Obviously, she doesn’t want to tell him the real reason. Give him the solution to his puzzle, and he’ll lose interest. Besides, she’s not sure she knows the real reason, herself. Maybe it was just to try something new and see if it would stymie him. Maybe it was her own frustrations finally coming to the fore.

He thinks he understands, but it’s not good enough. He tells himself it’s not because he enjoyed the kiss and wants more. It’s just a distraction, something to get him out of Clinic duty, he reasons. He makes a decision. 

“Call Foreman and tell him you found another place to stay.”

She raises an eyebrow but otherwise doesn’t seem surprised. He marvels again at how much better control she seems to have over her emotions now. “Where might that be?” she asks.

But he doesn’t answer, just turns and starts limping slowly in the direction of PPTH. He doesn’t actually know the answer to her question. Or he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, because it would be way too dangerous.

 

*~*~*

 

Clinic duty drags appallingly slowly, but there’s nothing else House can do. They have no diagnostic case at the moment, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of Cuddy’s knowing looks if he tries to come up with some kind of excuse to get out of it. He’s not in the mood for that.

He feels off-balance, and it intrigues and irritates him. He takes it out on the idiots who decided to ruin his day by coming to the Clinic with the usual boring runny noses and sore throats and explosive diarrhea. He rips into each of them, glaring at the clock between each appointment. He keeps pressing his hand to his mouth, remembering the feel of her lips. He has to keep stopping himself from reliving it, and from wondering where things could go later on, before a yummy mummy notices the party in his pants and starts screaming sexual harassment.

Finally, his hours are done, and he grunts at his team by way of a goodbye before limping down the hall. He takes the long way, avoiding  Wilson ’s office and the inevitable questions.  Wilson tried to interrupt him in the middle of Clinic duty, but House managed to hold him off -  _Busy doing important work here, Jimmy. Maybe later.”-_ and House doesn’t want to meet up with him now. He’s got a far more interesting appointment to keep.

Minutes later he’s climbing off his bike in front of his townhouse, and Cameron’s waiting on the front stoop, flipping through a medical journal. House notices it’s the one Foreman published his latest article in – this time not stolen from anyone, as far as House knows. He notices a bit resentfully how calm she looks.

It’s been difficult, waiting all afternoon for him. She kept herself as busy as possible. She went to chat with Cuddy, visited a few friends around the hospital. She went shopping at a few favourite stores in the region, picking up stuff that she just can’t get in her new home. And then she sat here and waited. It gave her time to get her mask in place.

She has no idea what’s in store, but nothing could pry her away. She took a risk, and House responded. This is another risk, but it’s the same thing all over again. 

Wilson told her about House’s motorcycle, but the reality is much sexier. House looks good in the leather jacket and shades, and she can’t help smiling a little. “Hi.”

House is tempted to get back on the bike and drive away. There’s so many ways this can go wrong. He doesn’t want this to change, he tells himself. He doesn’t want her back, sorting his mail and making the office coffee in the mornings. He doesn’t need that. 

And yet, he returns her greeting and opens the door. Even chivalrously lets her walk in first. He has no clue what he’s doing. But he can’t seem to stop.

“You changed the place,” she comments, looking around. She’s glad of it. The last time she was in here? Hadn’t gone well. He hadn’t even been willing to shake her hand- 

She stops that thought in its tracks. Derails it, getting back to the kiss. The kiss that seems to have led her back to here.

“Yeah,” House says, hoping he doesn’t sound as awkward as he feels. He hangs up his coat and hers, then limps over to the phone. “Hungry?” he asks. He isn’t, but he feels the need to buy time. Though for what or against what, he has no clue.

He puts in a call to the Jade Dragon, ordering the usual almost by reflex. The usual for him and Wilson, that is, but he’s sure Cameron can handle it.

She sure seems pretty good at handling him, anyways.

He hangs up and hobbles over to the couch, plunking down next to her. She’s flipping through some of the books on his coffee table. Medical journals, a book on motorcycles, music scores. He taps his cane on the floor at random intervals, wondering which can of worms to pry open first.

He starts with the obvious one. The dangerous one, too, but it’s like a loose tooth – you have to keep prying at it and prying at it until it comes out. “Why’d you kiss me before?”

She smiles and leans back against the cushions. It’s almost comforting, how predictable he is. She knew he wouldn’t let it go. “I told you.”

His brow furrows, and he taps the cane a bit more loudly and rapidly. “No, you  _didn’t_ .” 

And she’s not going to. Because it all depends on what  _he_ does, after all. So, she stalls. “Maybe I’m not going to, House.” It’s a challenge. Does he have the balls?

He’s getting more and more frustrated. He’s supposed to have the upper hand verbally. That’s how things are supposed to go with them. He stops tapping his cane as a thought occurs to him. She unbalanced things by kissing him. Can he somehow get things back to some semblance of normal by kissing her now? “Maybe I’ll  _make_ you,” he says, glaring at her. But it kind of loses its power when he’s unable to hold her gaze. 

She thinks she feels the shift. He thinks he’s figured something out. Well, they’d just have to see, wouldn’t they? “And how are you going to do that?” She could’ve said it teasingly, but instead she turns it into another challenge, another dare. I’ve got more balls than you, House.

Before he can think better of it and stop himself, he’s pushing himself closer to her, curling his hand around the back of her head, and pulling her forward until their lips meet.

It’s just as delicious as before. Less coffee taste, and more of  _her_ . Her fingers knot themselves in the front of his shirt, and he breathes a silent sigh of relief, eagerly plundering her mouth. 

He can feel telltale twinges happening in the general fly region of his jeans, and he knows if he had any sense at all, he’d stop this right now. He’s not balancing anything. Instead he’s getting pulled in deeper…but somehow that doesn’t seem all that important.

“Shirt. Off.” He orders between kisses, just to see what she’ll do. 

She’s surprised, but she’s not going to take his orders. He’s not her boss anymore, and she’s not the starry-eyed underling. Besides, doing the unexpected seems to have worked wonders so far. So, she starts to remove a shirt, all right.  _His_ .

His eyes open wide and he breaks off the kiss for a second, looking down and watching her slender fingers go to work on his buttons. “Um, not what I mean-”

“Shut up, House,” she advises.

“You still don’t seem able to figure out how to shu-” he retorts, and that’s when she smothers his words very effectively with her lips and tongue again.

Okay, he was wrong, she  _had_ learned how to shut him up pretty effectively. Not that he’s complaining. 

He lets her push his blazer and shirt down over his arms and off, and then she’s pulling back and pulling at his t-shirt. He raises his arms to help her, wrapping them around her again when the clothing’s out of the way.

More hot kisses, and now cool fingertips are running up and down, along his muscles, and he shivers pleasantly. He’s starting to  _ache_ fairly pleasantly, too.

“Your turn?” he asks hopefully, during a brief lull in the action.

“Ready when you are,” she says, leaning back and dropping her arms, making it plain that she expects him to take over. No problem.

She watches him, watches his face as he undoes her buttons and makes her own clothing join his over the arm of the couch. “Pink, of  _course_ ,” he comments about her bra.

She shrugs, pretending indifference. “If you don’t like it, you can always just get rid of it.”

He snorts, but his hands are already slipping around to the clasp of her bra. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He tosses the lacy item away, and then he’s left with only her pale skin. Part of him still can’t believe he’s doing this. That he won’t wake up in a Vicodin- and scotch-induced haze and find out this was all some crazy dreamworld he’s conjured.

But no, her nipple feels solid enough when he takes it into his mouth with a gentle suckle. The quiet moan she makes, the fingers sliding over the back of his neck, they all feel pretty real to him. He cups his hand around her other breast, thumb toying with her nipple, and sucks harder.

She looks down, watching him, marveling at the fact it’s him. But it is. Those blue eyes, that bristly stubble, long fingers…no way she’d mistake him for anyone else. She closes her eyes and gives herself over to the sensations he’s causing, not minding at all when she feels his fingers start to work at the button of her dress pants. She’s sure her panties are already drenched, anyways.

That’s when the front doorbell rings, and they break apart like guilty teenagers. “Fuck!” House curses. For once, the delivery boy shows up early. Figures.

“Go hide in the bedroom,” he suggests, snatching his shirt up from the floor and shrugging it on as he limps to the door. “Coming!” he yells when the impatient idiot starts to knock.

He manages to do a few buttons before yanking open the door, but that’s it. Too bad. If the delivery boy thinks House is trying to come onto him, he’s in for a grave disappointment.

“Here,” House says, flipping the money at the guy. “Keep the change,” he adds, grabbing the paper bags and slamming the door shut again.

He stands there for a moment, wondering what to do now. He’s got a bag full of piping hot Chinese food…or a half-naked immunologist in his bedroom.

He tosses the bags unceremoniously onto the kitchen table and limps down the hall, undoing his shirt and tossing it behind him.

Cameron’s perched on the edge of his bed. She doesn’t seem all that surprised that he’s half-naked again and empty-handed. “Dinner?”

“Can wait,” he replies. “That’s why God created microwaves. Where were we?” He tosses his cane across the foot of the bed and sits down next to her.

Privately she actually feels kind of flattered - House turning down food, in favour of sex with her? Someone call Guinness – so she doesn’t hesitate. “I think you were undoing my pants.”

“So I was,” he says, smirking, and reaches immediately for the waistband. 

She twists and turns to help him strip her down, then reaches for the front of his own pants. She can feel the warm press of him beneath the layers, until she strips them away. She’s too curious, so she even takes his boxers down, smirking at his raised eyebrow.

There’s an awkward moment as he seems to remember himself and moves his right hand to cover the ugly scar on his thigh, but she mutters a curse and knocks his hand away. They are  _so_ not going down that road. Instead, she makes a point of taking him into her mouth.

House’s head rolls loosely on his neck and he moans, not sure if he’s more shocked by how hard she knocked his hand away, or how enthusiastically she wrapped her mouth around him. He decides to analyze it later, since right now it seems more important to focus on what she’s doing. And trying to hold himself back so this doesn’t end too quickly.

It’s not an easy task, though. She’s  _good_ . He particularly appreciates the trick where she runs light fingertips up and down the length of his shaft, while sucking lightly on the pulsing head.

Soon, he can’t take it anymore. He reaches down and grabs her above the elbows, tugging until she’s standing in front of him.

“Your turn,” he rumbles, echoes of earlier on the couch.

She remembers. “Ready when you are,” she says, smiling expectantly.

He gets her to lie down on the bed on her back, and he makes short work of removing her underwear – her  _very_ damp underwear. He feels obscurely flattered. For an old cripple, he’s sure managed to get  _her_ juices flowing. Pardon the pun. He just hopes the slowly growing ache in his thigh won’t distract him too much.

He lays down, using his palms to urge her thighs wider apart. Very nice. She’s very pink and very wet and very appreciative when he starts using his tongue. Very tasty. Salty and hot and just what the doctor (pardon another pun) ordered.

Slow shocks curl through her body as House’s limber tongue strokes across all the right spots – her aching clit, her delicate inner folds, her sensitive entrance – and it doesn’t take long before she wants him inside her, as deep as he can get. “I want-”she bites her lip as another wave of sensation sweeps through her. 

“Something that would require a condom?” he asks. She nods, not trusting her voice. “There should be one in the dresser to your right.”

He hopes it hasn’t expired.

There isn’t much time to think on it, though. He’s rolling over onto his back, tugging her along with him, and then she’s unrolling latex the length of him, before spearing herself gradually onto him. 

“Christ,” he grits out. It’s been too long, and she’s too beautiful. This isn’t going to take long.

She closes her eyes, moving up and down, faster and faster. He feels right inside her, like he  _belongs_ , in a strange sense, and she’s never been more glad that she took that risk and kissed him. Every nerve ending stretched wide and tingling, and she’s so close to the edge that when the palm of House’s hand presses against her, rubbing firm circles against her most sensitive spot, she’s soon climaxing hard, slow lightning behind her eyes and reaching into every limb.

It’s the height of sexy, watching Cameron –  _his_ Cameron – surrender like that, and it’s enough to make him join her, enough to make him forget everything for a moment, even the sharp pains starting in his thigh, everything swept away by pleasure.

She’s laying across him, her hair scattered over his neck and chest. It tickles, and normally he’d snark and complain (or he tells himself he would) but he can’t really be bothered this time.

He thinks he gets it, now. “So,  _this_ is why you kissed me.”

Hidden out of sight in the crook of his neck, she smiles. He wasn’t considered a genius for nothing. “Yes.”

He says nothing for long moments, and she thinks he’s actually fallen asleep, but then he asks: “So, what do I have to do to get you to come back to PPTH? Want more money? A car allowance, better parking space?”

She smiles. She has him now. “We’ll negociate.”

She’s thinking dinner. And not just a meal between two colleagues. No, a date.

But she doesn’t think he’ll refuse.

And if he does, well…she can always just kiss him again.

 


End file.
